A few months ago I went to see a therapist on Harley Street for no particular reason other than I thought, being 34, it was really about time I told another man about the disconnect my "friend" feels while having sex with his girlfriend. I mean, that's not actually true (neither it being about my "friend", nor about the sexual detachment), but isn't that the sort of thing you're supposed to talk to a health professional about?

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As a man, confronting and facing down one's anxiety, one's emotional tripwires, one's failings, is supposed to be a good thing, right? Rather than like, say, my late grandfather, who simply bottled it all up and retreated to his workbench in the basement of his bungalow for several years. As regenerated himbo Bradley Cooper once confided in me over a Negroni (mine) and a Cobb salad (his), "You exercise your body, why would you not exercise your mind?" Which is a fair point, although one lost on someone whose idea of a work-out involves a lot of procrastination and very little perspiration.

No, what I really wanted to talk to my shrink about was my life as a reformed sociopath. Or as I would explain it, the ability to walk into a room, any room, anywhere, start up a conversation - with man, woman, friend or foe - and be able say precisely the one thing that offends the most.

It's a game that stemmed mostly from boredom. Boredom and being full of myself. Once upon a time, I was far happier jostling for the attention of the room through barbed witticisms than I was talking about football. Or the European parliament elections. Or how many people I think Nigel Farage has had sex with.

You can just imagine what my girlfriend thought of such a skill, and that's why - of late - I've had to dial down the put-downs a touch. Nowadays there is much less of the visceral, nettling commentary that once accompanied an evening out with friends, as I usually sit back, let others talk and bite my tongue really hard as my girlfriend drives her stiletto through the top of my foot under the table.

And here's my main problem with the so-called "coolest comic" in North America, the man who comes with more cred than a Lena Dunham "belfie" - Mr Louis CK. This overweight fortysomething with a ginger goatee, a barrel chest and the pointed, crumpled features of a guy continually grinding his axe is, for me, just a sociopath with a microphone.

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The man is just not funny. I've been through reams and reels of his material. Did I laugh? Actually, yes, admittedly I did laugh. Once. There's a joke he tells about when you put your kids into the back of the family car, kicking and screaming as you strap them into their seats like flailing zoo animals. He makes an observation that the walk round the back of the car, once the doors close and they're secure inside, those few golden moments of precious silence, is the closest a man gets to an actual vacation. That was pretty funny. Pretty funny-ish.

Fan-boy comics and simpering critics describe Louis CK as "fearless" and "brave" because he gets on stage and says and does things that other comics wouldn't dare do. Like saying, "I'm fat and I hate myself." Or, "I hate my kids." Or miming masturbating on stage just like Jim Davidson. Big deal, Louis. Men say that stuff to each other at their desks in Birmingham all the time. I have work colleagues "braver" than Louis CK. Be honest, we've all made off-colour remarks about 9/11, paedophilia, farting and how moronic most human beings are. For the rest of us, this isn't comedy; this is just what life sounds like from the touchlines when you stand and point and say any old thing that comes into your head.

Another thing about Louis CK is the adulation he receives about his stand-up methodology. Fans blather: "You know he writes a brand-new show every year? Just like that. What a genius!" Big whoop-de-do. You mean unlike most comics who recycle and rehash tired old material throughout their long, insufferable careers, Louis CK actually does some work? Make that man a sandwich. If only the rest of us could spend a few weeks writing down how our children behave in the bathroom, or what some fat guy in a coffee shop sounds like, and then spend the rest of the year telling people about it for huge amounts of cash. Maybe the reason he chucks all his old material away after each cycle is because it's worthless.

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Of course, maybe I'm just like Louis. Or maybe I just hate comedy. Maybe I'm bitter. With his anti-morality, his plain-black T-shirts, his sweaty-groin jokes and his everyman appeal, perhaps it's only the fact that he's able to get away with being such an arsehole - no, lauded for it - while my own sociopathic tendencies have been told to stay silent, maybe that's what really gets my goat.

Admittedly, I'm yet to go and see one of Louis CK's live shows for myself. Maybe it's all about context. If I drink 15 pints of cheap beer and gather in a room with thousands of roaring, receptive, like-minded (ie, totally wasted) men, I too would see the laughter shine out from this man's behind, the so-called comic's comic. I mean, we got it wrong about Jesus, so there's every chance I'm wrong about this guy. Maybe I'll laugh. Maybe it'll be good for me. Cathartic. Either way, it'll be cheaper than therapy.